It's Your Birthday
There it sits, in front of me, wing torn off, propellor snapped in two, nose cowl cracked. Mr BC had come in the day before and presented the plane to me, on his birthday, as a subterfuge meant to alter the fact of his buying his ownself a toy on his birthday.
Over forty years later and I'm still putting up with the same shit from that guy. Only this time he tried to kill me. I honestly don't know what this bastard who calls himself my friend has against me. The first time he smashed up one of my planes he was, as far as I can tell, after 40 years of rumination on the subject, only trying to break my spirit.
That's how I met him all those years ago, Mr. BC. Minding my own business, twirling on a string my favorite airplane. I was in my front yard happily contained inside my self-made universe. A universe where airplanes without battery or gas power could fly important missions and shoot down enemy combatants for as long a time as I could turn around in circles with my twig-like arm outstretched. He came over from across the street, where he had been bragging to other neighbors about how important his dad was, and proceeded to tell me how important his dad was, take my plane from me and then instantly smash it up against the tree that the men who worked for his dad, had just planted.
But yesterday, pleading lack of understanding about the controls of a remote control plane, that to my understanding would seem simpler than the controls of the real life airplanes he has recently been studying to fly, he acted out a flight plan no less insidious than Trade Center kamikaze pilots, and brought the mini-Cessna straight down from the heavens on a direct course for the soft spot on top of my hard head. It was at this point really just a coffee grinder with wings, and my head a French Roast bean awaiting its powdering. Bernadette was there as witness, laughing as she saw the proof of my previous allegations about being not really much of a dancer, as I contorted and side-stepped with the now larger version of my twig-like arms wrapped in their ludicrous pretension of protective head gear.
It was I am sure a humorous thing to watch, and the diving coffee grinder did after all not land on top of my head, but safely in a wing and propellor exploding crash, six inches from the cowering tower of me. Bernadette had only just met Mr. BC, was perhaps lulled or even sold on Mr. BC's seemingly innocent and child-like demeanor; she could not in such a brief time had any inkling of, or insight into, his inner insidiousness.
He really does seem like a good fella and in fact I not at all begrudgingly admit he is a good fella, but that is a thing which unfortunately does not change the harsh reality of his constant, life long torturing of me--his breaking of my favorite toy, followed by the day his pet mouse disemboweled my pet mouse, and the day he sicced the Jehovah's Witnesses on me, the day he made me drive his Mercedes, fly in a private jet, eat food a la grecque, drink Russian vodka, live on a private hill, and now the giving of and crashing nearly into me, a second plane. It's just too much sometimes.
He was very upset after the crash. He had even had premonitions of things going bad and had said before almost killing me that he felt things were going to go badly. At one point he tried to blame me for the crash which nearly killed me. He said I had thrown the plane too hard, that it was really an act of suicide if you considered it that way.
Bernadette and I tried to cheer him up, it was after all, his birthday. But after a moment his wife came out and called to him asking about missing toothpaste. He tried to direct her from afar but then all of a sudden jumped up and ran to her. Slowing down as he approached he announced with all the disconsolation felt by an eight year old boy on a bad day--I broke my plane. He said nothing about trying to kill his so called best friend.
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Hello Dave
Dave, your Ipod is back in NY. When you get a chance would you make the body font for this page like the old email from NOLA? I have copied the style sheet for you. Here it is
body {background: #ffffff;}
body, table, tr, td {font-family: arial, georgia, verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;}
A {color:#000000;}
A:visited {color:#000000;}
A:hover {color:red;}
ul {list-style:none;}
form, input, textarea {font-family: arial, georgia, verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;}
span.new {font-size: smaller; color: #ff0000;}
span.new A {color:#ff0000;}
span.new A:visited {color:#ff0000;}
span.preview {color:darkgreen;}
span.footer {font-size: smaller;}
div.controls {font-size: smaller;}
div.center_block {text-align: center;}
Dave, your Ipod is back in NY. When you get a chance would you make the body font for this page like the old email from NOLA? I have copied the style sheet for you. Here it is
body {background: #ffffff;}
body, table, tr, td {font-family: arial, georgia, verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;}
A {color:#000000;}
A:visited {color:#000000;}
A:hover {color:red;}
ul {list-style:none;}
form, input, textarea {font-family: arial, georgia, verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;}
span.new {font-size: smaller; color: #ff0000;}
span.new A {color:#ff0000;}
span.new A:visited {color:#ff0000;}
span.preview {color:darkgreen;}
span.footer {font-size: smaller;}
div.controls {font-size: smaller;}
div.center_block {text-align: center;}